Ulysses
by Red the Petty Dabbler
Summary: Set during the campaign events of Titanfall, follow the altering perspective of twelve Pilots of both oppositions as they cope with the horrors of war and the negative affects of their valorous efforts to bring an end to the war. Rated M for strong language, sexual situations, and graphic description of violence.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** A story based on Titanfall (hurr dur) and made because of my love for the game and the need to expand the universe. This is mostly written for my brother and I's enjoyment. Tell me what you think :)

So please, enjoy.

* * *

><p><em>"Rest easy brother... for I'll see you on the other side soon."<em>

**PROLOGUE**

Nexus

June 21st, 2134

16:09:12...13...14...15...16

THAP THAP THAP THAP!

"Move, move, move!"

Echoes of footsteps scurrying upstairs in the empty apartment complex. Heavy boots stomping and smashing against the already cracked concrete floors.

"On my go."

3..2..1.. BREACHING BREACHING!

IMC Grunts and a pilot in the room, Compact SMGs and EVA shotguns in arms, and gunfire rang as **Frontier Militia** Pilots Sergeant Tres and Warrant Officer Lucas Hale breached the door with a squad of grunts not far behind.

BZZZZT!

An arch mine detonated as Tres first entered the room, fortunate enough that the hail of gunfire didn't make contact with his body. However, he took the full electrical charge of the mine and seemed to fade away from the world before everyone else did.

It was all black afterwards, but he could hear his men screaming in pain, shouting out orders to retreat. Tres found himself lying on the floor, on a moist puddle of blood. But it wasn't his and he sure as hell didn't remember falling. His body jerked uncontrollably, like somebody kicked his side...like he was being beaten to death by a gang.

Then...there was a sound. A sound he'll never forget. The sound of a high-caliber round striking flesh and a scream that will forever haunt his dreams.

His vision slowly returned only for it to become blurred through his helmet and the blood tainting the inside visor. Maybe he did get hit. Tres faintly remembered his squad and their names. Who they were and why they've signed up for a job that demanded more than their hard work. Then, he remembered fellow pilot... Warrant Officer Lucas Hale and how he was just a step behind Tres when he lead the charge into the room.

But that scream wasn't Hale's. Oh no. It was the rookie. A girl no older than 18 years. A grunt like many. It was her and when Tres finally mustered the strength to get his feet under him, he removed his helmet and found her mangled corpse. Eyes widened in horror and he fell back against the wall - all emotions overwhelmed in horror to see his squad and Hale sprawled across the floor in a bloody decorated mess.

Tres hurled over and struggled to secure a grip with reality. His black eyes focused on Hale's body, the whole of his face torn apart and missing. Tres muttered Hale's name over and over again before hurling over once more, mixing vomit with the blood that stained the floor.

He felt dizzy, unresponsive, and gravely weakened. Tres slumped against the wall, hand resting on the AutoPistol secured in his leg hostler. He was going to kill the bastards that did this. Every last one of them. But his knee buckled, he fell, and in that moment, the world faded away.

• • •

**Interstellar Manufacturing Corporation** Gunnery Sergeant Alphonse "Spectre" Polonsky ran out of the smokey ruins of the building, shouldering his rifle as he ran across the war torn street, firing off bursts from his R-97 Compact SMG into an enemy grunt that was aiming a rocket at him and his squad. The rocket flew back and exploded into another group of enemies, tearing the poor souls into wet chunks of red meat and spraying clouds of blood across the walls. The horrifying sight of a human being torn to bits would haunt the dreams of many men but to Polonsky, this was nothing compared to the horrors of war he'd witnessed when he first enlisted into the IMC.

The area was clear for now and the gunfire seemed to have ceased. Except for the ones that echoed in the background of the battlefield.  
>As he looked up, the sky was a jet black from the smoke and crowded with Phantom-classed fighter jets, Crow (Militia) and Goblin (IMC) dropships. Polonsky checked his R-97 again; customized with an H-COG sight to it, making his already sharpshooter-like aim a bit easier. He pulled a spare clip out of his armored vest, tapped it twice against his helmet and slapped it into his sub-machine gun.<p>

"Take a quick break," ordered Polonsky. "Inside that building, move!"  
>Polonsky quickly took cover behind the wreckage of a civilian vehicle while everyone else in his squad arrived at the entrance to the strip. They slumped against walls, crouched down and wipe the sweat from their foreheads, checked their tactical equipment and weapons adding fresh magazines into their standard issued R-101C Carbines.<p>

As Polonsky broke away from cover, he felt like he was getting nervous, but he didn't want to show it nor should he be. What kind of leader would he be if he was scared? But something didn't sit right with him and he had a gut feeling that things were going to get worse than it is.

Radio chatter broke the silence of the soldiers and Polonsky began mumbling to himself much to the squad's dismay. "Breaks over," he told the grunts. "Command issued a tactical retreat. The rendezvous isn't far."

Then as Polonsky and his squad broke from cover and stepped out into the street, they were met with a hail of gunfire. The pilot cursed and seemed out cover, shouting out orders to return back to the strip but by the time that happened, everybody but him were severely wounded or dead. He stood in horror, watching as his squad were torn into pieces by the _slimmer models_ of **Titans**: a **Stryder**. As it approached him, he closed his eyes and awaited the worst to happen.

Only, that moment never came and a familiar voice called out his name.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** And there you have it! The prologue to my Titanfall story. Tres and Polonsky will be the primary characters of this story along with a hand full of other Pilots on both sides of the war. Their character and history will be explained, possibly in the next chapter, I have no clue yet. So, aforementioned, R&R and tell me what you think!

Please, **no negativity**, thank you! :)


	2. Before & After - Cause & Effect PT1

_**Before and After... Cause and Effect Part One**_

• • •

Nexus...

In the wake of a detonation, Alphonse opened his sealed eyes. His head throbbed, his body ached, and the smell of burnt flesh filled the air. He grunted, finding it hard to get his feet under him. His sidearm was there, secured in its hostler. He removed the Magnum and used the pillar behind him to his standing.

The Titan - the Stryder - was lying in a pile of smoking rubble. A mangled arm exposed through the opening of the cockpit. The dust cleared out from behind it and another Titan - an Atlas Chassis - stood in victory. A blue star painted across its metallic chest.

"You feelin' okay kid?" A voice called out, through the Titan's intercom.

The voice was none-other-than Sergeant **Ryan "August" Harper** (character based on Michael Rooker): Anvil Three's Gun-Nut and Explosive specialist. The Titan's hatch opened and August jumped down, thrusters from his jet pack activating to avoid any injuries from the fall.

"Aren't you happy to see me?" August questioned, approaching Alphonse with arms wide open.

"Somewhat," replied Alphonse solemnly. "Where's the others?"

"Pullin' out."

"Why?"

"Mission's gone to shit. Cap'n can't afford to lose anymore men."

Alphonse turned away, eyes frozen on the bodies of his Grunt Conscription Team. Men who looked up to Alphonse... men who knew he would protect them from danger because he was invincible - because he was a Pilot.

August followed his gaze and grimaced at the scene. "C'mon kid," he tugged at the young Pilot's arm. "We gotta go before reinforcements arrive."

Alphonse could only nod.

* * *

><p><strong>Two Weeks Later...<strong>

**Frontier Militia Space**

Waves of nausea, the body aching, the mind absent or lost in memories he'd wished to forget. Fragments of the incident. Fragments of the moment his world was torn apart.

Hale's dark humor and his orders. The door getting smashed in... followed by a blood curling scream. The horrid sound of bullets piercing the skin... Electricity crackling as a faint smell of burnt flesh fills the air. Quiet laughter. Chatter. Heavy boots scuffling away - pounding on the concrete floors and leaving behind the mess in that room.

**Tres Emery** groans softly, jerks upright, and grips his shoulder tight. His eyes rapidly jumping around the room until they've stopped on a slumbering man. The man was Hale's second-in-command. **Elliott Hawke**; gung-ho and tough as nails. His appearance is unkempt - dark rings under his eyes shown Tres that he hadn't slept in days or weeks... Probably waiting for him to wake up from his coma. Waiting for his best friend to wake up and return to the land of the living.

Tres found it hard to decide which memory was it that he'd first met Elliott Hawke. Maybe it was that time he commanded the recently decommissioned Shadow Runners of the IMC's Expeditionary Forces? Or that time when Hawke pulled his bloody carcass from his downed Ogre Titan and marched on for miles?

Tres found it hard to recall his first time meeting Hawke but knew the man has been through it all with him. He'd follow him through hell and back if he had to! Tres knew that Hawke would never leave his side and when Tres made that decision to join the Frontier Militia - Hawke was more than ready to drop his silver uniform for a worn-out green one.

They were brothers in arms. Men who'd risk their lives for each other.

Tres chuckled lowly at the memory and allowed his feet to hang from the edge of the hospital bed, wincing at the sharp pain that jolted throughout his body for even moving a muscle. He shouldn't be going anywhere until the Corpsmen stationed here tell him otherwise. But Tres never listened. He removes the IV from his forearms and heads for the exit... all-the-while keeping the slumbering man from waking up.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Well, it took a while but I've been busy lately so... yeah. Anyway, hope my readers enjoyed it and there would be more to come!

R&R and no negatively! Thank you :)


End file.
